


struggling to keep up with the beat

by caitss



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/M, Gen, Old memories, past unhealthy relationships, smoking and drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 16:32:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14622669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitss/pseuds/caitss
Summary: Saihara tosses the cigarette, his breath tinged with the smell of smoke. He looks at the ripped photo in his hands, and decides its best if he left it in the past.





	struggling to keep up with the beat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosmicpoet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpoet/gifts).



> hashehejeje welcome.  
> there will be a lot of mistakes bc ao3 deleted most of this ;)))) and i didn’t feel like looking back and correcting them ;))

Shuichi wakes up in his bed, the sheets on the ground and the heat sinking in. The sun pours through the window, and he sits up, yawning miserably. He turns on the lamp, swinging his legs off the the bed and standing up. Closing the curtains, Shuichi lets out another yawn, rubbing his eyes and proceeding to get dressed. Heading over to the grand living room, he sits down on a green chair, rubbing his eyes and letting out a sigh this time. 

With a jolt, his eyes snap open again, and he scolds himself for dozing off. Shuichi simply lets himself stand, forgoing breakfast and walking out of his house. The sharp smell of smoke and whiskey is strong and prominent, especially on the men, but he trudges through, his wilted appearance something to be forgotten. The sweet nostalgia hits him in a wave, traveling through his body and giving his heart a shock. He looks around and deeply inhales, rubbing his forehead. His head ached. Usually, he could blame it on a hangover, but he didn’t even go to the night club last night.

Oh, but with them, he always did. It was repetitive, as if it was the only thing that kept them together. Shuichi blinks furiously, as if attempting to regain a memory, deep in the recesses of his mind. His lips downturn; displeasure written all over his features, and he shakes his head. No matter where he went, his mind always found its way back to the night club, with neon lights and the smooth tones of song floating in the alcohol ridden air. During those nights, two hands dragged him along, and he was so unwilling; so annoyed and so tired, that he didn’t even consider their link special. 

He didn’t consider useless scum who made a living off of getting drunk and illegal smuggling friends. Shuichi told them this once, champagne sloshing around in his glass as he mockingly toasted them, his eyes so bitter. He had then stood, spilling the fluid on the table cloth and spinning in his heel, leaving them to lick their own wounds. Shuichi knows Maki and Kaito, he knows how toxic and worthless they are, how the paleness of her wrists were coated in cheap perfume, and how Kaito’s breath reeked of the same cheap brand of beer.

How did they even get him to drink champagne in the first place? It’s beyond him, and he even laughs about it, standing in the middle of the street, alone. Shuichi decides the world doesn’t need him today, and walks back home, ditching his memories and the people stitched to them. It doesn’t matter; the golden champagne, the chain smoking, the way Maki cut her hair into a bob to fit in with the flappers, it was all useless, just a memory fading into grey. He opens his door, greeted with the sound of silence. Shuichi makes his way back to his unmade bed. The sun is brighter than ever, so he closes the curtains harshly, hands moving on their own. 

He doesn’t need the warmth, the brightness; all he needs is his unmade bed and the darkness. Shuichi sits back down on his bed, kicking at the grounded sheets out of exasperation. This bed was the one he hid under when Kaito and Maki were drunk and being destructive at his house, this bed was the one he hated, the one he ended up after his first night at the club. The club; he hated that place, the neon lights flashing, the glass forced in his shaky hands, the alcohol, the smoking, the laughter. The music was unbearable, the way it screamed in his ears, the tones so empty and hollow and hurting. 

Shuichi shakes his head, opening up the drawer and pulling out a full box of cigarettes. He lights one, just like they would light one for him, and lifts it to his lips. In a second or so, he is surrounded by clouds of gray, plumes of smoke billowing out of his lips. Shuichi looks at the ceiling, the stark white paint holding nothing inside of it. It’s slow, and it’s Maki’s fault for buying him this pack, but he’s smoking it all through, the thick sheets of gray either his imagination or reality. It chokes him, fills his lungs and tears at him, tears, tears, tears. 

It’s like their friendship, in a way - good at first, but then a suffocating cloud of smoke. He laughs in a choked way, the burn reaching the tips of his fingers, his lips turned into a smile. His hands aren’t shaky, not like they were the first time they handed him a cigarette, forcing it to his lips and corrupting him. He’s bitter; they turned his red heart into black. Shuichi knows that this is all their fault - Hell, he wouldn’t even be here if they hadn’t spoke to him.

If Kaito had gotten over his fucking inferiority complex, maybe Shuichi wouldn’t be here; if Maki had gotten over herself, maybe Shuichi wouldn’t be destroying his lungs. But they both had mouths like unswept glass, always pricking you unexpectedly, and Shuichi knew it couldn’t be helped. There was no point in trying to reform two bootleggers with the only thing going for them being their looks, there was no point in trying to save them from the hole they dug themselves. No, because they are also cowards who skipped town to bootleg again, drag another innocent person into clubs and brandy, lies ridden with alcohol and the stench of smoke. 

Shuichi shakes his head, throwing the last of the cigarette on the floor, squashing it underneath his heel. His hand reaches out, grasping a picture on his drawer. He looks at it, but only stares at his face - not the red of Maki’s eyes, not the cocky grin on Kaito’s lips - only the uneasy look on his face, the small smile quirking his own lips. Shuichi crumples it up; he didn’t need a reminder of who they are or what they looked like; they were Bonnie and Clyde, their love a thankless tragedy, the two people who ruined your life with the smell of wine. 

He already knew what they looked like on that day, what they looked like when he bid them goodbye with a harsh laughter, and what they look like now. Shuichi stares at the window, standing with newfound confidence, making his way to the curtains and drawing them. He opens up the window, and with a firm expression, throws it out the window, closing it without a thought. Shuichi closes the curtains as well- closes off his heart, too. 

“I don’t need you two anymore.” He says, and he doesn’t know if that’s his voice, or the voice of a corrupted boy with a cigarette and a glass of brandy in his hands. Whoever he was anymore.

The people fade into nothing but wood and ash, whisked away by a cloud of gray smoke and the smell of burning plastic.


End file.
